Free Not His Type by Lisa Crane Page A

explained how the accident
occurred.  “What he doesn’t know is I intend to somehow pay him back.  I may
have to get another job, but I will pay him back.”
     
    “You’d take a
second job to pay a man back who obviously doesn’t expect to be paid back?”
     
    “I’ve worked two
jobs since I was eighteen, Riley.”
     
    “Yeah, we
weren’t all born with a silver spoon in our mouths,” Jazz said dryly.  She
looked at Brooke.  “So you’re saying you lost two jobs while you were in
the hospital?”
     
    “Well, I didn’t
say either of them were great jobs,” Brooke answered, smirking.  “There was my
job at Joe’s, and then there was my very glamorous job at Hot Diggity’s.  I
might actually still have that one.  I’m supposed to go talk to the manager
after I get off work here.”
     
    “You sure you’re
up to it?” Riley asked.  “You’ve been on your feet all day.  You’re limping
more now than you were when you got here this morning.”
     
    “Lord, please
save me from overprotective men!” she muttered, rolling her violet eyes
heavenward.  “Thank you for your concern, Riley, but I’m fine.  And sometimes
you just have to suck it up and keep going.”
     
    “How about we
park you on a stool and you can ice some of those cookies you baked earlier?”
Jazz suggested.  At Brooke’s obstinate expression, she shrugged.  “Hey, I’m the
boss.  You sit down to work, or you go home.”
     
    “What about
washing those baking pans?” Brooke asked.  “What about sweeping up in the
kitchen?”
     
    “I can take care
of that later,” Riley replied, grinning broadly.  He winked at his wife. 
“That’s what I was hired to do four years ago, right?”
     
    Brooke bowed to
the pressure put on her by Jazz to sit on a stool and drizzle glaze over
cookies.  After several hours, her leg no longer ached, but her hand was tired
from squeezing a pastry bag.  She held it up in a claw-like gesture for Jazz to
see.
     
    “Look what
you’ve done!” Brooke laughed accusingly.  “I can’t straighten out my fingers!”
     
    “Well, maybe
that handsome neighbor will cook dinner for you again tonight,” Jazz teased.
     
    “Don’t even go
there.”  Brooke picked up her purse.  “I guess I’ll head on out.  I’m off to
see if I can talk the manager at Hot Diggity’s into letting me keep my job, if
he hasn’t already replaced me.”
     
    “Good luck,
Brooke,” Riley said, one arm draped casually around his wife’s shoulders.
     
    “We’ll see you
Monday morning at six,” Jazz added.  “Enjoy the rest of your weekend, Brooke!”
     
    Brooke left the
bakery and headed to the mall.  She parked as close as she could to the food
court and limped inside.  The line in front of Hot Diggity’s was, as usual,
snaked to the side, overflowing into the mall.  Brooke bypassed the line and
slipped behind the counter.
     
    “Hey, Brooke!” a
young man in a bright yellow and red cap greeted her.  “How ya doin’?”
     
    “Pretty good, Bryan,” Brooke answered.  “You?”
     
    “Not bad,” he
replied.  He jerked his head toward a door behind him.  “Schmidt’s in his office .”
     
    The young man
rolled his eyes and made air quotes with his fingers.  The employees at Hot
Diggity’s all thought it was a huge joke that Mike Schmidt called the tiny
store room his ‘office’.  He’d squeezed a wobbly chair and a rickety little
table into the tight space between shelves stacked high with condiments and
paper products; from there he reigned his little hot dog dynasty.  Now Brooke
tapped on the door and opened it to stick her head in the stuffy space.
     
    “Hello, Mr.
Schmidt,” she said respectfully.  “How are you?”
     
    Brooke cringed
when the man looked up at her.  He gave her one of his leering smiles and
gestured for her to come in and close the door.  Brooke hesitated, then pulled
the door shut behind her.  She turned and smiled politely at the